Academic Pursuits
by MizJoely
Summary: Au Sherlolly - Chemistry Grad Student Molly Hooper is nervous about meeting and working with new Professor Sherlock Holmes. Will sparks fly or will he burn her? Only one way to find out!
1. Chance Meeting

_A/N: Apologies to anyone who is waiting for me to finish my other stories. I WILL get them done! I promise! Meanwhile, enjoy this humble offereing in the meantime! Heaps of thanks to both WickedWanton for reading it over, and to Nocturnias for helping me figure out how to keep Professor Holmes from coming across as a creepy stalker taking advantage of a student. Thanks, ladies!_

* * *

She was late. Damn, she was late and it was threatening rain and today was the day she was supposed to meet Professor Dunn's replacement. She'd heard conflicting things about Professor Sherlock Holmes and it wasn't helping her nerves any. He was brilliant, everyone seemed to agree on that much, but not everyone she corresponded with or spoke to agreed on more than that. She'd heard him described as both a 'deductive wonder' and an 'arrogant prick' and several other choice descriptions, very few of them flattering.

And she was going to be his teaching assistant for the remainder of the semester. Lucky her.

Why did Dunn have to decide to retire right at the beginning of the fall semester, anyway? He wasn't in ill health – that man would outlive them all, lucky sod – or being nudged out by the University board or the dean of the Chemistry college. No, he'd just decided out of the blue that he needed a change of scenery and buggered off to Tahiti with his fourth – or was it his fifth? – wife, giving only a week's notice and considerably increasing Molly's workload while the university scrambled for a last-minute replacement.

At least Professor Holmes had been available to take Dunn's place after only two weeks had passed. Apparently he'd spent six months on some kind of academic sabbatical from his previous posting – to which he'd then opted not to return. Again, there were mixed messages when Molly inquired as to why he'd done so; some said he left voluntarily, others whispered of some sort of disagreement with the University head.

But again, no one questioned his brilliance. The man had published more papers and garnered more accolades than any other professor in their mutual field. She knew that much from her own research even before all this; she'd read some of his papers and her opinion of his brilliance had already been well established. Too bad the man was so camera shy; even the university he'd left had no photos of him, no personal data at all – apparently their computers had been hacked at some point and every bit of information from his birth date to the color of his eyes had been deleted. Good to know he was a genius in more than one field, she supposed.

Getting to work with him was either the greatest opportunity she would ever have before finishing her doctorate...or the biggest mistake she could possibly make. That much she'd gleaned from speaking to the one former teaching assistant who was willing to talk about the man. "Oh, he's brilliant (that word again!) no doubt about it. A brilliant prick, but if you can put up with him, it's worth it. The things you'll learn – he pushed me in a direction I never would have gone, but the thesis I got out of it was worth every single critical word he ever said to me."

She had the feeling Greg Lestrade was giving her the first completely honest assessment of the man she'd heard. It was only after she'd hung up that she realized she'd forgotten to ask what Professor Holmes looked like!

Oh, well. No point fussing over lost opportunities; Lestrade was busy and although he'd been friendly enough she doubted he'd appreciate her calling him back for such trivial information.

She hauled the strap of her messenger bag tighter to her body, looking down as she rummaged in it for this morning's lecture, not wanting to have to dig for it in front of fifty bored undergraduate students in Intro to Chem. Unfortunately, she chose to do so just as the smooth pavement gave over to the cobblestones some idiot architect thought would give the university 'character'; the heel of her shoe caught, she cried out as she started to fall...

...and found herself suddenly crushed against the chest of a perfect stranger.

A perfectly _perfect_ stranger, she thought dazedly as she gazed up at the face of her rescuer. Perfect, dark curly hair falling over his forehead; perfect blue-green, catlike eyes gazing quizzically down at her, perfect Cupid's Bow lips quirking in a slight smile; perfect pronounced cheekbones that just cried out to be stroked...

"Oh, um, sorry!" she belatedly stammered out as she realized she'd been gaping up at him like an idiot, making no move to disentangle herself from his grasp – his lovely, strong grasp, the tweed jacket he was wearing only the thinnest disguise over arms that felt quite muscular..."Thanks, sorry, stupid shoes, I should have looked where I was going, thanks for not letting me fall on my face!" she babbled as she finally pushed herself upright, if not quite out of his arms.

_Shut up, Molly,_ she counseled herself silently as the stranger – not much older than she was, she thought hopefully, another grad student? – eased her back onto her feet, keeping a steadying hand on her arm as she bent down and awkwardly freed her shoe from where it had caught.

Hopping slightly, she managed to wedge her foot back into the black high heel – she should have just worn her flats, but she was tired of being the shortest woman in the room all the time – then gave her rescuer another awkward smile as she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Great, now she would have to brush and rebraid it before she entered the classroom; nothing screamed 'respect me' to a class full of undergrads like a windblown head of hair on their instructor's head.

He still hadn't said anything, but he wasn't turning and running, so perhaps this wasn't as horrid a first meeting as she thought it was. "So, um, are you new? Here, I mean?" Oh, brilliant, show him your marvelous communications skills, Molly.

He nodded, his lips still curled in a slight grin. "Yes," he said, finally speaking, and oh! His voice! Chocolate covered velvet, a baritone purr that curled her toes in her shoes. "My first day, actually. I've recently...transferred, I suppose is the correct term."

She smiled, hoping desperately that it wasn't as sappy a simper as she suspected it was, fiddling with her messenger bag as she said brightly: "Well, I hope you enjoy it here! I'm Molly Hooper," she added, hoping to be gifted with his name in return.

Oddly enough, he seemed to react to her name as if he'd heard it before; her heart beat a little faster as she wondered if he was in the Chemistry program? That would be lovely; perhaps they could study together sometime, or help each other with office hours and grading papers...

That little fantasy was interrupted by his voice (oh, that voice...she could listen to it for hours...) saying: "Aren't you going to be late for your first lecture? Your students must be getting impatient by now."

She blinked at him, mouth falling open again. "How did you...oh, God, never mind! You're right! Sorry! I do have to...damn!" Then she hurried off, messy hair and the slight ache in her left ankle forgotten as she dashed off to her first lecture of the day.

Late.

**oOo**

Fortunately for Molly's peace of mind, she had a free period between that first lecture and the next. She used it to rebraid her hair and switch out her heels for the flats she kept stashed in her office for emergencies. They were scuffed and faded but were much more comfortable for her aching ankle than the three-inch heels had been.

She gulped down a cup of coffee and a bag of crisps, resolving once again to start keeping healthier snacks in her desk, then gave herself a critical once-over in the mirror. _Much better, Miss Hooper, _she thought to herself; makeup was all right – well, perhaps a dab of lipstick wouldn't hurt – hair was neat and tidy, blouse straightened and a-line skirt set properly on her hips. She gave herself a nod, then headed to her second lecture of the day. Only one more after that, then lunch, then her meeting with Professor Holmes.

Thinking about that meeting set her nerves clattering, so she focused instead on the gorgeous stranger who'd saved her from falling on her face earlier that morning. Too bad she hadn't got his name before racing off, but he'd been correct to remind her of the time.

How, she wondered as she headed down the hall to the lecture hall – ten minutes ahead of schedule, no point in being late twice in one day! – had he known that she was _giving_ a lecture, as opposed to taking a class herself? Then she glanced at her messenger bag, and a grin crept over her face. Oh, clever! He must have seen her notes, the top page of which had been sticking out of the bag when she tripped. Or perhaps he'd noticed her ID badge clipped to the outside pocket? Or maybe it was the way she was dressed..She shook her head. It didn't matter; he'd figured it out and kept her from being any later than she already was, just another reason to be thankful to him.

Oh, her lecture notes...had she grabbed the right ones? She paused in the doorway to the lecture hall, rummaging through her bag to make sure...yes, there they were, whew, for a moment she was worried she'd have to dash back to her office...

"Do you make a habit of throwing yourself at people, Miss Hooper, or is it only me?"

Oh, that voice! That lovely, lovely, voice, coming from...directly in front of her. From the person she'd just bumped into while she was fumbling in her bag. "Sorry," she said, the word coming out automatically while her brain tried to process the fact that she'd stumbled into the very same man from earlier.

He looked utterly cool and unflappable as she groped after the right words, dismissing her apology with another slight curl of the lips. She wondered how he'd look if he actually allowed his mouth to form a proper smile, then chastised herself. Honestly, she didn't usually let a pretty face distract her like this! Of course, it wasn't just his face that was so pretty and distracting; his voice could turn her knees to butter, and his slender form was one she didn't mind towering over hers...

_Get a hold of yourself, Molly! _she scolded herself silently. _He's just another student, like you._ No better, no worse – well, she allowed herself the ego to reflect, possibly worse, since she was one of the best in her group. But judging by the sharp intelligence in his eyes (blue? green? blue-green? Coke bottle blue?), he was unlikely to be an idiot... "Are you lost?" she asked, as much to hear him speak again as to distract herself from her increasingly flustered thoughts. "Is there anything I can help you with, I mean? Anything you need? You can have me if...no, sorry!" she said, flushing bright red at her slip of the tongue. "I meant, what I meant was..."

Well, she'd wanted to know how he would look if he smiled fully, and now she had her answer: absolutely stunning. Even knowing that he was trying not to laugh at her didn't keep her from noticing how much younger he looked, how much more relaxed he seemed with his lips stretched wide in a smile that lit up his entire face. "No, Miss Hooper, I'm where I need to be," he said after he managed to bring himself back under control, although his eyes were still brimming with amusement. "I'm sitting in on this lecture, if you don't mind. I just wanted to get an idea of your presentation style."

Her presentation style...what on Earth? Molly gave him a hesitant smile and nod, then entered the room as he stepped aside, politely allowing her to go first.

To her disappointment he immediately took a seat at the back of the hall. Damn, she was really hoping to continue to chat him up, maybe show him she wasn't always a clumsy twit who couldn't string two coherent sentences together. But when she glanced up at him, he had his head down and was texting away on his mobile, so she gave a mental sigh and busied herself with organizing her notes and making sure the audio-visual equipment was working properly.

**oOo**

Forty minutes later she found she'd actually managed to forget his presence. There had been a bit of a Q&A session in the middle of her lecture that she hadn't allotted time for, but it seemed ridiculous to stick to a strict syllabus when students were showing some real enthusiasm for the subject matter.

By the time she did remember, her 'guest' had already vanished, along with the bulk of the other students. Biting back another disappointed sigh, she continued to answer questions posed by the four students who'd remained behind to quiz her a bit.

Glowing with the feeling of having actually inspired some students, she headed back to her office. With a frown, she saw that the door was half-open; had she forgotten to lock it again? Damn, she really needed to stop doing that; what if someone sneaked in and jimmied the lock to her desk and stole test questions? She'd lose her position for sure!

A slight sound from inside froze her in the act of reaching for the handle. Someone was in there! What should she do? Her mobile was probably at the bottom of her messenger bag, there was no one in the hall...damn, should she confront the intruder or go find help? If she left, what if they left as well? Her office was fairly well organized, but there would be no way of proving any wrongdoing if she didn't catch the perpetrator in the act...

"Do come in, Miss Hooper, it's your office, after all."

That voice...no, it couldn't be...what the HELL was he doing in her office? With a flash of anger, Molly pushed the door open the rest of the way and marched inside, glaring at the sight of her mystery man seated behind her desk as if he belonged there. "You're damn right it's my office," she snapped as she crossed her arms tightly over her chest. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Waiting for you," he replied, sounding not the least bit intimidated by her. Sounding bored, even. He leaned against the back of her chair and studied her. "You really do need to remember to lock up after yourself. I presume you were too busy with your hair and makeup to remember something so mundane?" He gestured toward the mirror on the back of the door, and then toward Molly herself, as if that was some kind of explanation for how he'd deduced her so accurately.

Deduced her...a growing feeling of dread in her stomach, Molly slowly straightened and finally took in the details of her mystery man, the ones she should have observed from the start. The way he dressed, so formal – not the typical jeans and t-shirt that made up what was essentially the student uniform, but an expensive-looking tweed jacket over a crisp white shirt, pressed black dress slacks and his shoes...not trainers or scuffed loafers, but leather dress shoes. And he'd said he wanted to get an idea of her presentation style...

Slowly she raised her eyes to meet his. He was smiling, the small, secret smile he'd worn when she first met him, and he nodded. "Very good, Miss Hooper. I wondered if you would come to the correct conclusion on your own."

"Nice, nice to meet you," she said, slowly extending her hand, willing it not to shake as she continued to process the truth of his identity – and how wildly inappropriate her lascivious thoughts about him had been. "I, I look forward to working with you, Professor Holmes."

He took her hand in his own as he rose smoothly to his feet, his eyes sparking as the smile on his lips finally expanded in seeming appreciation of her own deductive skills. "I look forward to working with you as well. I believe we'll make an acceptable fit."


	2. An Acceptable Fit?

_A/N: So I forgot to mention that this is a three-parter and that most of it's already been banged out. Here's part 2, part 3 coming soon!_

* * *

He'd been right, the bloody arse. In fact, they did more than make an 'acceptable fit'; they worked very well together. For six weeks they'd worked well together, even on the days when she locked herself in her office and sobbed and raged at some unintentional hurt he'd dealt her. Hurts she could only blame him for in the smallest way; he'd warned her, that first day in her office, that he had a tendency to say things that other people found offensive when all he was doing was speaking the simple truth. He'd offered her a blanket apology in advance for any offense he might give, she'd rather dazedly accepted, and then he'd begun a virtual interrogation that had left her even more dazed by the time he finished. But she'd acquitted herself well, even if he'd only given a sharp nod and told her that he believed his original assessment of her was correct, and left her office.

It was the beginning of November and she was finally beginning to get a handle on him. He was, indeed, brilliant. He was also impatient, intolerant of what he perceived as stupidity (especially the willful stupidity he claimed so many students clung to in order to 'blend in' with their peers), and master of the sharp retort if anyone dared to take offense.

He was also, quite plainly, the most attractive man she'd ever met, bar none. Physically and mentally. Even when he was berating her, she'd finally come to understand that it was only because he expected so much from her, and wouldn't tolerate anything he perceived as laziness, or her giving less than her very best. He kept her on her toes, and after a month had passed, she'd finally found the courage to reprimand him when she felt he was crossing a line.

That day had been rather momentous; she'd expected him to continue to lash out at her, but instead he'd nodded and retracted his hurtful words, although he'd also reminded her that he'd explained himself to her on the day of their first meeting – and also reminded her of the blanket advance apology she'd already accepted. "Yes, but that was for things you said that you didn't mean to be hurtful," she'd pointed out, proud of herself for not stammering the way she usually did around him, unless they were debating research. "This time you knew you were being awful."

And just like that, he'd admitted it and apologized. Sincerely. A banner day, Wednesday, 20th October 2010. She'd have marked it on her calendar if it wasn't already seared into her brain.

Time passed and she discovered two things about herself: one, she was much more comfortable working with him after she'd called him out and he'd apologized; and two, the sheer, overwhelming desire she felt for him, instead of abating over time, only grew stronger.

The week before Christmas, she finally admitted to herself that it wasn't just desire. Not simply lust or passion or even simple admiration for his absolute, undeniable brilliance.

She was in love with him.

The question was, what was she going to do about it?

She'd tried dating other men – boys, really, especially compared to Sherlock – to no avail. Oh, some of them were nice enough, but most of them were simply awful, and having that fact pointed out to her over and over again by the man she really wanted was its own particular hell. So she gave up, resigned to simply worshiping the object of her admiration from afar until even that became too torturous to bear.

**oOo**

Holiday parties were absolutely ridiculous, a waste of time and energy and bad liquor. Holiday parties where the attendees were work colleagues and their underlings, such as the upcoming Chemistry Department party, were an even bigger waste of time than the ones involving friends and family. Or so Sherlock Holmes had announced when Molly gathered her courage and asked if he was going to attend.

She knew she hadn't hidden her disappointment at what sounded like a resounding 'no', but had been pleasantly surprised when his snappish words had been followed immediately by an irritated: "Of course I'll attend. Dean Stamford has expressly requested my presence in order for me to 'get to know' the rest of the staff and your fellow graduate students a little better."

The curl of his lip had been expressive, but Molly didn't care. He was going to be there; she could finally stop waffling and make her move.

She knew it was wrong; Sherlock wasn't only a professor, she worked directly under him...oh, wrong, wrong, _wrong_ choice of words; the image it conjured up was enough to make her head swim. She shook it and tried to order her thoughts.

She worked for Sherlock Holmes; she was a graduate student and he was a professor. Her interest in him was wildly inappropriate, even if they were less than ten years apart in age, and she was over the age of twenty-one and there was nothing illegal or wrong about it other than their professional relationship.

If she didn't approach this with the proper amount of discretion, Sherlock could get into a great deal of trouble if anything did happen between them and the wrong people found out.

Her head was beginning to throb and she was starting to sound like a character from a spy novel, even if it was only in her own head. "Now or never," she told herself, trying to maintain the courage that had allowed her to dress in a completely different style to anything she'd ever tried before.

Instead of pulling it into her usual braid or pony tail, she'd elected to leave her hair loose down her back, only pulled away from her face and held in place by a silver barrette at the back of her head. Her dress was black and form-fitting, tighter than anything she'd ever worn before, even on real dates, coming to just above her knee. The black straps holding it over her shoulders were decorated with silver embroidery; she'd put on dangly silver earrings and a black-and-silver bracelet, donned her rarely-worn black heels and, as a finishing touch, a silver gift bow was bobby-pinned in place on the left side of her head just above her temple.

She had a bag of gifts ready, including Sherlock's – a vintage 1920s test tube holder she'd found when browsing a local antiques shop earlier in the month. The gifts she had for the other members of the department were nowhere near as pricey or as personalized, but as soon as she'd spotted it she'd visualized it sat on the corner of Sherlock's desk next to the antique pewter retort his friend Dr. Watson had given him for his birthday, and she'd impulsively purchased it.

_Courage, Molly,_ she counseled herself as she felt her heart start pounding in her chest as the time for the party drew nearer. After all, what was the worst that could happen?

**oOo**

An hour later she was safely home, in the small house she'd inherited from her father after he'd succumbed to cancer two years earlier. She felt numb, exhausted and heartsore, and all she wanted to do was change out of her party dress, put on her rattiest pyjamas, scrub off the carefully-applied makeup and pretend this horrible, horrible day had never happened.

She'd known Sherlock could be cutting, even cruel, but she'd never expected he would eviscerate her in so public a forum, humiliating her in front of her fellow students and the professors whose respect she'd worked so hard to earn. His words still burned in her ears: the way he'd drawled out his deductions about her having love on her mind, how he'd insulted her lips and breasts by declaring that she was 'obviously compensating' for their size by her tight-fitting dress and the bright red lipstick she'd chosen...and then, as if that attack hadn't been bad enough, he'd zeroed in on her bag of gifts, mocking the fact that she'd taken extra special care with the one on top.

Her only satisfaction came from the way he'd shut up as soon as he saw the gift tag bearing his name on that beautifully-wrapped present. He'd fallen silent and started to offer up an apology, which she'd ignored as she'd turned and walked as rapidly out of the room as she could manage in her heels. She'd held her head up high and the tears hadn't fallen until she'd reached her office, where she'd left her coat and purse since it was so close to the staff lounge where the party was being held.

And now she was home and could try to ease the sting of humiliation with a glass of wine or two – or three – and some crap telly and her cat Toby on her lap.

At least she wouldn't have to see that heartless bastard for another three weeks. After that...well, she'd see how she felt when the spring semester started. But she had a feeling Professor Sherlock bloody I'm-cleverer-than-anyone-in-the-room Holmes was going to be looking for a new graduate assistant.

She'd only taken a single sip of her glass of wine when she heard a sudden pounding on her front door, causing her to start and slosh the red liquid onto her hand – and her extremely outraged cat, who hissed and streaked off into the kitchen.

Cursing and rubbing her hand on her dressing gown, she deposited her glass on the low wooden coffee table and shuffled to the front door, ready to give whoever it was at this time of night a piece of her mind.

She froze as she pushed aside the lace curtain that covered the narrow strip of window next to the front door. What the hell was he doing here? Hadn't he done enough damage?

Fury rising, Molly unlocked the door and yanked it open, feeling a sort of remote, savage pleasure at the startled look on his face as she glared up at him. "What do you want?" she snapped, even as her eyes hungrily took in his features, from the unreadable, tight-lipped expression on his face that quickly replaced the startlement, to the way the wind was blowing his unruly curls so that they tumbled nearly into his eyes, to the expensive, black Belstaff he was wearing over his usual suit coat. God, he looked good enough to eat, and she was completely pathetic, to still want him like this after what he'd said to and about her...

"Molly, you left before I could finish apologizing," he said, his words coming in a rush as she unconsciously backed up a step, one hand still on the door, half-ready to just slam it in his face. He must have read that intention, because he backed up as well, for once in his life not crowding her personal space in that way he had.

She crossed her arms over her chest and continued to glare up at him. "I heard you before," she said flatly. "But I'm sorry, Professor Holmes; I can't say I accept your apology. And that blanket apology you offered that first day? Definitely doesn't cover you humiliating me in front of the entire fucking Chemistry department!"

She hadn't realized she'd raised her voice in a shout until she fell silent again, chest heaving with anger. She'd uncrossed her arms at some point, because now they were hanging by her sides, both hands clenched into fists as if she were about to physically pummel him, the way he'd pummeled her emotionally.

"Molly." She looked up and met his eyes, shocked at the look of humble sincerity she read there, an expression so alien to Sherlock Holmes that for a split second she wondered if he'd actually been possessed by some kinder, gentler – and far less arrogant – entity. "I know words are inadequate to express my regret at having hurt you so badly, but they're all I have to offer. I know it's not an excuse, but the reason I said those things was because I was...jealous."

She gaped up at him, fists easing as she tried to process what she'd just heard him say. Jealous. He'd been...jealous? Of what? More importantly, of whom? And why?

She hadn't meant to ask those question aloud, but her mouth had blurted them out while she was still groping after understanding.

A shiver went over her form, and she realized belatedly that she was standing on her small front porch in the middle of December wearing nothing but her pyjamas and a dressing gown that could best be described as threadbare. Wordlessly she stepped back inside, holding the door open in silent invitation. While part of her mind screamed that this was the worst possible idea she'd had – aside from falling in love with the heartless bastard now striding through her door and into her small foyer – the rest of her wanted to know what he'd meant.

Well. 'Wanted' was putting it mildly; 'desperately needed to' was closer to the truth.

She shut the door and trailed after him into her sitting room, wondering if he was deducing her entire life from the messy but comfortable room, and deciding she didn't care. Although she would never, ever again allow herself to wonder 'what's the worst that could happen', she truly didn't think anything he had to say to her now could make her feel any worse than she already did.

"You've dated seven different young men since I arrived here."

Molly found herself gaping at him again; whatever she'd expected him to say, that certainly wasn't it. "Yeah, so what? I'm not married or anything, I'm certainly allowed to date." She was proud of how steady her voice was; usually when she was upset it degenerated into stutters and hesitations punctuated by squeaks worthy of a Disney mouse.

"When I saw how much care you'd taken with your appearance tonight, and when I saw the equal care that had gone into wrapping this –" he held out the gift wrapped box containing the test tube holder, from where it had been half-hidden behind his back; how had she missed him bringing it into the house? – "I did something I rarely do: I allowed my...emotions...to get the better of me. I made an incorrect assumption and said some unforgivable things because of that. If I could take them back, I would."

He didn't meet her eyes as he spoke, looking down at the hardwood floor beneath his feet as if apologizing to it instead of her, but when he fell silent, he darted a glance at her, took a deep breath, and continued: "I thought, erroneously, that another young idiot had captured your attention. Imagine my chagrin when I realized I was the idiot in question."

Molly let out her breath in a slow exhalation – not quite a sigh – as she pondered his words and the continued apology implicit in them. "So," she said, picking her words carefully as she caught and held his gaze, "you were...jealous. Of me...dating someone. Someone else. Someone...not you."

He nodded, one of his trademark half-grins curling the corner of his mouth just the tiniest bit. "So that means you...like me," she concluded, and the grin deepened.

"Rather a lot," he agreed, placing the gift on the coffee table and shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. "Inappropriate, I know, considering that I'm a Professor and you're a graduate assistant, but, well, there it is." He ducked his head and ran a hand over his dark curls in a very boyish manner that Molly found utterly irresistible.

Sherlock had managed to both utterly destroy her and bring her to the heights of happiness in one night. The question was, what was she going to do about it?

"You're right," she found herself saying as she stepped closer to him, stopping just inside his personal space, the way he did to her all the time. He met her gaze squarely, hands still thrust into his jacket pockets, his face expressionless as he waited for her to finish whatever she was about to say. "It's completely inappropriate for you to have feelings for me, since I'm your graduate assistant." His eyes dropped, and she finally gave into the urge she'd had since the first day they'd met; she reached up and ran her fingers through his hair. He looked startled, but before he could say anything, she tiptoed up and whispered in his ear: "That's why, as of today, Professor Holmes, I quit."


	3. A Twenty

_A/N: There will be an epilogue after this chapter, which is M rated for (sh, don't tell anyone!) SMUT! Thanks to everyone for reading, reviewing, etc. :)_

* * *

Molly Hooper was over a decade separated from her virginity, and had experienced many, many kisses since the first one planted on her by her then-boyfriend when they were both twelve (and had had no idea what they were doing). She considered herself, therefore, in an excellent position to judge any kisses she received, and even had her own rating scale, from one to ten.

This kiss she would later rate as her first twenty.

Her fingers were tangled in his hair, his arms were wrapped around her shoulders, their lips slid together and clung as if bonded on a molecular level – at least until Sherlock's tongue slid between them. Her mouth opened beneath the insistent pressure and her eyes slammed shut and Molly felt as if the pleasure center in her brain was already short-circuiting by the time Sherlock's hands moved down to her hips and dragged her flush against his lean form.

She couldn't help the gasp that escaped her lips at the feel of his erection pressing insistently against her hip, at the slide of his hands as they made their way from her hips to her bum, kneading the soft flesh with those long, clever fingers of his. The fact that she'd fantasized just such a moment made it seem a bit surreal; what if she'd had a psychotic break after his harsh words at the party, what if this was all in her head?

Then he leaned his head down and nipped at her earlobe, her fingers clenching in his dark curls as he let out a growl, and all doubts were destroyed. This was real; this was happening.

She was about to sleep with Sherlock Holmes, her no-longer academic mentor.

"Professor Moore has been trying to poach you since Professor Dunn left," he murmured in between kisses along the column of her neck. "Tell him I've finally managed to make it impossible for you to work with me, that you're ready to accept his offer to work for him instead."

She moaned out her assent, then turned her head to allow him to place another kiss on her eager lips. He indulged her, his hands moving from her bum to her waist, putting just enough distance between their bodies to allow him to undo her dressing-gown tie, then slip that garment from her shoulders. He broke the kiss as her fingers reluctantly unwound themselves from his hair, but only to tug at his jacket, shoving it off his shoulders and down his arms, where it joined her dressing-gown on the floor, two puddles of fabric that were quickly enlarged as the remainder of their clothing joined them.

"You'll continue to work on our projects as well," Sherlock said as their clothing left their bodies, speaking in that rapid-fire way he had when he was impatient but needed to impart some important piece of information, and Molly found herself nodding whenever he paused and looked at her for confirmation that she understood him.

However, she couldn't stop her eyes – or her hands – from straying southward once Sherlock divested himself of trousers and pants (silky, navy blue boxers) and revealed his lovely, erect cock to her view. She stepped forward, wrapping her hand around him and pressing a kiss to the base of his throat. He let out a bit of a stifled whimper when her hands began stroking him, but he gamely soldiered on, the words coming even quicker. "I'll allow your supposed defection, it's only reasonable after the terrible things I said to you tonight. However, I refuse to completely give up on our mutual research simply because we're sleeping together."

Sherlock gave an audible gulp as Molly removed the last of her own clothing and allowed her hands to drift to his narrow hips, although she conscientiously kept them away from where they really wanted to be; he needed to have his say and she needed to hear him out.

"As far as anyone will know, all the work we do from this point forward will have occurred before you left," he continued. "It will take you several months to get over your aversion to being in my presence long enough for us to publish. And all the computer data will back that assertion up, so there will be no hint of impropriety once we go public with our relationship – which as far as the university and the larger world will be concerned, will have happened after that tentative reconciliation. Proximity during the finalization of our 'previously researched' data will have caused your feelings toward me to have changed, and during that time you will let people know that I apologized exactly as I did this evening – well," he added, with a glance at their equally nude forms and wry grin as he brushed a thumb across her cheek, "perhaps not _exactly_ as I did. The words, the sentiments, yes; the actions – well, it's best to leave some details to the imagination, hmm?"

Molly couldn't help smiling at him in a helpless mixture of admiration and surprise; clearly he'd thought this all out, long before he'd arrived on her doorstep – how long ago? Ten minutes, fifteen? Had he expected this to happen between them, or just planned it out just in case? "What would you have done if I'd just slammed the door in your face?" she finally managed to ask, batting his hands away from where they'd begun to explore her breasts, trying to ignore the rising flush of heat making its way from her groin to her face, or the way her nipples hardened, and strained so eagerly into his delicate, questing touch. He'd had his say, yes, but he still owed her answers.

He gazed down at her with a serious expression on his face and stilled himself. "I would have come back until you heard me out," he said after a moment spent studying her face as if committing every feature to memory. The fingers of his left hand strayed to her cheek again, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear and lingering there. "No matter how long it took, Molly, this outcome was inevitable from the moment I understood what a colossal ass I'd made of myself. That you felt the same way about me as I do about you."

That startled a laugh out of her, quickly muffled by another one of his lightning raids on her mouth. She gave into the kiss, just as she gave into his impeccable logic, glorying in the feel of his body once again pressed to hers, this time without any pesky layers of clothing between them to muffle the sensation of his skin against hers. Would he hurt her again, in the future? Hell, yes. Would she forgive him again?

"Oh, HELL, yes," she found herself mumbling as his lips moved to her earlobe and her hands once again reached down to stroke that magnificent erection he'd never lost, not even while explaining his strategy to her, the one that would allow him to have his cake and eat it, too – God, that sounded filthy, even in her own mind, but it was exactly the right sentiment. When he asked for an explanation for her words and the giggle that followed, she told him, not blushing or stammering once – at least, not until those amazing blue-green eyes of his lit up with a wicked sort of glee that turned her knees to jelly.

She clutched at him to keep herself from falling, and he took ruthless advantage of her sudden weakness, swinging her into his arms and carrying her the few steps it took to reach her sofa. He set her down gently, kneeling between her legs with his hands on her thighs, and the wicked glee turned to a sort of dark hunger and Molly felt faint all over again as he slowly pushed her thighs apart, his eyes never leaving hers as he lowered his head to brush his lips against her very – VERY – wet slit.

**oOo**

She'd forgiven him. He'd never experienced such a dizzying feeling of relief as the one that washed over him when Molly allowed him into her small – but cozy – home. Inherited from her late father, very little changed in the sitting room with the exceptions of some bright pillows on the sofa and some obviously new prints on the walls – slightly smaller in size than the artwork they'd replaced, the faded wallpaper told the story; items she disliked or items that too painfully reminded her of her father? A question for another time.

She'd listened to him, allowed him to kiss her, and now…ah, now, he would finally be able to indulge in an activity he'd eschewed for many years in the name of academic clarity. No other student he'd mentored had challenged him the way Molly Hooper did; it was her mind that had first captivated him, until suddenly one day he noticed how attractive she was…but forced himself to pretend he hadn't.

He'd known she was attracted to him as well, but his position of authority over her precluded any advances on his part, and although she'd appeared to be disappointed by his deliberate lack of interest, he'd assumed the many young men so eager to get her into bed had been enough of a distraction to keep her disappointment at bay.

The fact that none of those young men had actually achieved their goals had been an ongoing source of internal rejoicing on his part, although he hadn't presumed to believe their lack of success had anything to do with Molly's feelings for himself. He'd assumed her crush had been (not to be too clever, but he couldn't help it) crushed by his seeming indifference to her as anything other than a student and research partner.

All these thoughts raced through his mind in the time it took Sherlock to kneel between Molly's legs, spread them apart, and lower his mouth to her sex. By the time his tongue had taken its first, confident swipe across her labia, his mind had stilled in the way very few activities could make it, until all he could think about was bringing Molly – and eventually himself – to the apex of physical pleasure.

He allowed himself to discover the intricacies of her lovely body, relishing the feel of her fingers as they threaded themselves through his hair – she did seem a bit obsessed by his hair, not that he was complaining as the slight discomfort brought about by her tugging fingers and the slight dig of her nails into his scalp when he pressed a finger deep inside her caused a very pleasurable sensation – and the breathy moans she was emitting.

Molly raised one leg to his shoulder, and he murmured his approval against her increasingly-moist flesh, adding a second finger and spreading her open a bit wider, preparing her for penetration in the most pleasurable manner possible. He'd already deduced that she hadn't had sex for over a year, which still surprised him, considering how many young men had been so eager to engage her in such a fashion, then dismissed the thought from his mind, simply enjoying the fact that he would be her first after such a lengthy abstention. His own had lasted considerably longer – years, even – but even so he would ensure that he took every care to focus on her pleasure ahead of his own.

His tongue continued lapping eagerly at her folds as she moaned and writhed under his ministrations, her hips thrusting upward as she neared her crest. He'd believed himself fully hard and ready for her at this point; however, the sound of his name being moaned aloud by Molly in the throes of her pleasure sent a jolt of elemental pleasure down his spine and straight into his penis, causing it to throb almost painfully. He moaned at the sensation, which was apparently all Molly needed to send her over the edge; she cried out (his name again, he noted with no small sense of satisfaction) and bucked against his face, her heel digging into his shoulder and her fingers digging into his scalp and all he could think as he lapped up her feminine emissions was how impatient he was to replace fingers and mouth with his cock, fuck patience and going slowly.

He pulled his mouth away from her dripping pussy, nothing of the detached academic in his features as he looked up at her, chest heaving, eyes clenched shut, mouth still open, tongue darting out to wet lips still swollen and pink from their earlier kisses. Unable to restrain himself a moment longer, he surged up until he covered her body with his own, eager for her to taste herself on his lips as he maneuvered them so she was lying beneath him.

**oOo**

Molly hadn't been lucky enough (she now realized) to ever have a boyfriend who really knew what he was doing when it came to oral sex. Ever. Even the ones she would have sworn up and down had given her fantastic orgasms with their mouths.

Just like everything else about this encounter so far, Sherlock Holmes was doing a fantastic job of demonstrating his prowess at more than just chemistry – and continuing to shatter every one of Molly's expectations. His tongue alone was in a category by itself, she decided as she started to come down from her orgasmic high.

If she'd expected him to give her a few moments to collect herself, she found herself entirely mistaken as he practically launched himself up from his kneeling position, his hands on her thighs and his beautiful face right in front of hers. His eyes were almost wild, the pupils so far blown back that there was little of the blue-green irises to be seen at all. His hair was mussed – well, that was entirely her fault – and his mouth and chin were a bit shiny, and oh GOD he was kissing her, she'd never been kissed right after a boy went down on her and it tasted…odd, but was so incredibly erotic that she didn't even think about turning her mouth away as his tongue demanded entrance, just gave in and enjoyed it.

A lot.

At some point during the kiss Sherlock had moved them about so that suddenly she was lying flat on her back and staring up at him as he broke the kiss. She wondered if her eyes were as dark as his, what state her hair was in, then gave up wondering anything at all and simply gave herself over to him, sighing with pleasure as he grazed her right nipple with his teeth and tongue, holding himself above her with one hand while the other squeezed her left breast, his fingers pinching that nipple into almost painful erectness as his tongue teased the other.

Well, two could play at that game! She wiggled one hand between their bodies, grasping his cock firmly with no intention of being forced to let it go until she was good and ready, not this time, thank you very much! Her other hand slid down his back, feeling the play of muscles as he continued to toy with her breasts. She stopped only when she reached his firm little bum, feeling a moment of envy that hers was nowhere near as toned and taut as his. She slid her fingers teasingly along the crack of his arse and heard him gasp, felt him stiffen a bit in her embrace, and smiled a contented smile that he wasn't the only one doing the mind-blowing.

Speaking of which…there was one thing she absolutely had to do before she let him fuck her – thank God she was on the Pill since she had no condoms and doubted he'd thought to bring any with him – and she wasn't going to take no for an answer.

Giving his prick a last, loving squeeze, eliciting a moan from him that widened her satisfied grin, she pulled his head up to hers and kissed him, placing her hands on his shoulders, waiting for his tongue to once again invade her mouth – and sucking on it in as suggestive a manner as she could manage.

His free hand, which had moved to her hip, tightened almost painfully, and the sound he made was closer to a groan than a moan, but Molly took both actions as signs of approval. After their mouths parted (oxygen, damn the need for it!), she reached for the hand that wasn't busy keeping him from completely crushing her into the sofa cushions, drew his middle finger into her mouth and began sucking on it, sliding it in and out of her mouth, watching his face the entire time.

He growled; she told him that, later, and he denied it (of course), but she knew what she'd heard: the man had absolutely growled before grasping her by the waist and flipping them over so that suddenly she was on top of him and he was beneath her and then he let her go long enough to slip down between his legs and take his lovely, lovely cock in hand and slip her mouth down over the glans and show him exactly how mind-blowing this encounter could be.

**oOo**

The second Molly's lips covered the head of his cock, Sherlock knew he was in trouble. Deep, serious, 'oh fuck' trouble. Because although he'd been on the receiving end of being sucked off more than once, it had been many years, and he'd largely deleted the experiences. Which was possibly why Molly's mouth on his cock felt so fucking amazing, but somehow he doubted it. No, it surely had more to do with the fact that he actually harbored feelings for the young woman so cheerfully bobbing her head up and down while he groaned and fought not to press his fingers into her head, to grab her hair and see just how deeply she could swallow him down.

None of his past relationships with women had ever lasted longer than a few months; none of them had involved women that had Molly's seemingly unique blend of intelligence and innocent sexuality that had so intrigued him from the moment of their first meeting. No, even though this was only his and Molly's first sexual encounter, he already knew for certain that he was completely invested. That this was not the only activity they would share between one another.

Although, he was willing to grant, this was pretty fucking amazing all by itself. He'd had no idea what to expect from Molly, but such absolute lack of inhibition on her part was quite exhilarating. Not to mention arousing; and if she continued to do that with her tongue and lips and fingers, he was going to… "Molly, stop!" he gasped out, finally letting his fingers tangle in her auburn tresses, tugging lightly to bring her mouth away from his cock.

She gave him a cheeky grin as he released her hair, then rose up to her knees, still grinning as she rested her hands on his bent knees. "Liked that, did you, Professor? Guess you're not the only one giving lessons here, are yo….oomph!"

Oh, that wasn't to be tolerated, not at all; he tightened his knees on her hips, locking his ankles behind her back and knocking her back down so that she once again sprawled atop him. Giggling. "Miss Hooper," he said in his haughtiest voice, "please refrain from expressing yourself with such smug self-satisfaction…until you are sure," he added, lowering his voice to a velvety purr, "the lesson is entirely over." Then he once again flipped her onto her back, hovering over her as he had been before, but this time allowing no distractions from his goal, no matter how personally pleasurable he might find them to be.

Reaching down between his legs, he took himself in hand, nudging her knees as far apart as she could manage on the narrow confines of the sofa. He pressed the head of his cock against her opening, watching carefully for any signs of discomfort or upset at his highhanded behavior – and finding none.

Good. Because right now, he really, really wanted to fuck Molly Hooper into a gasping, shaking mess.

So he did.


	4. Epilogue

_A/N: OK, here it is, folks, the end of this little saga. Hope you've enjoyed and thanks to everyone for their reviews!_

* * *

**Epilogue**

Molly was having the most fantastic dream, and had no desire to wake up. So when someone called her name, she mumbled an inarticulate reply along the lines of "Five more minutes" and rolled onto her side.

The feel of a hand smacking her backside with considerable force brought her abruptly awake – and swearing. "What the fuck –!"

She turned to glare at whoever it was that had laid a hand on her, eyes widening as she saw the grinning face of the man she'd just been dreaming about peering down at her.

Oh. Not a dream, then.

The glare melted into a shy smile as she rolled onto her back. "Good morning."

"Good morning to you as well, Molly," Sherlock replied. "Slept well, did you?"

She nodded, her grin widening as she recognized the look in his eyes. A careful brush of her hand against his thigh (and slightly higher) told her that her deduction was correct; he was hard and ready for her again. She was a bit sore but had no intentions of turning him down.

Not now, not ever. She'd even go along with the complicated plan he'd outlined the night before, as long as it meant the two of them could be together.

He lowered himself to her, fingers brushing against her damp curls, lips pressed to her neck, murmuring against her skin before abandoning speech and putting his mouth to much, much better use, licking and sucking her nipples (sore, but again, no complaints on her part) as his fingers wandered southward.

She couldn't help the way her mind flashed back to the night before, how incredibly hot he felt when he slid into her, filling her, stretching her a bit (it had been far, far too long) but never to the point of pain or even discomfort.

The way he'd moved above her, his eyes on hers, remaining wide open and peering at her with the same intensity she'd seen when he was conducting a particularly interesting experiment.

The way he'd brought her to her second climax of the night, moaning out his name, her fingers digging into his shoulders as her legs wrapped themselves around his waist. The way he strained against her, his own climax coming mere moments after her own, as if he'd been dragged along in her orgasmic wake.

And now, it appeared, Professor Holmes was extremely interested in reliving a previous victory.

And Molly Hooper was more than willing to indulge that interest.

However, this time she was determined to be the one to set the pace. Fair was fair, after all, and no 21st century girl worth her salt would allow the man in the relationship to dictate all their activities. With that thought in mind, Molly grabbed his shoulders as his head started to follow his hands, tugging him onto his back and straddling him with a grin. "My turn," she declared as she reached down and stroked his cock, loving the way it felt in her hand – but impatient to feel it deep inside her, where it really belonged.

Possessive, yes, she certainly was. "You do agree that this relationship is going to be exclusive, right?" she asked as she rested her free hand on his chest, grazing her fingers against his nipples, toying with the gingery hair that covered his chest and matched his eyebrows. It was rather odd, how the hair on his head was so dark, but the hair on the rest of his body was so light. She liked it, though she wasn't going to admit any such thing to him just yet. Some compliments needed to be saved for the future.

If, of course, they had one. She frowned as he hesitated before answering her, started to lift herself from his body, only to have him hold her firmly in place with his hands on her hips. "Of course it's going to be exclusive," Sherlock finally replied, sounding irritated. "Exclusive, long-term, eventually leading to matrimony and children if you so desire."

"Then why take so long to answer me?" she demanded, returning irritation with irritation. He wasn't the only one allowed to lose him temper in this relationship (exclusive, long-term, marriage, children...oh, what a lovely quartet of words!), and she wasn't going to let him ever forget that!

"Because I thought it was rhetorical," he snapped back, then lifted his hands from her hips and wrapped them around her wrists. "I do believe you were in the middle of something when you got distracted. Do get on with it Molly, as I'm quite eager to see just how many orgasms we two can manage in a twenty-four-hour period."

His irritable expression melted into a devilish smile, and Molly's annoyance – and, she ruefully admitted to herself, sudden panicky self-doubt – vanished as she smiled back at him. Without another word, she lifted her hips, waiting for Sherlock to release her hands before positioning herself over his cock and sinking down onto it with a contented sigh.

They rocked together, Molly leaning down so he could nuzzle her breasts, teasing her nipples with his tongue. Then she reached back and grazed his bollocks with her fingertips, eliciting a hiss of startled pleasure from his mouth, which buzzed against her over-sensitized nipples, shooting electric spikes of pleasure straight to her core. She gasped and moved faster, rolling her hips as she felt her climax building, digging her nails into Sherlock's chest and causing him to gasp and arch his back, and that did it, brought her over the edge, crying out as she crested the wave and slid breathlessly down the other side.

Sherlock had the courtesy to wait until she'd somewhat recovered before flipping her onto her back and thrusting into her with an easy rhythm. Soon she was moving beneath him, as her bones returned to solidity after having been transformed into melted butter; she clutched his arms and pressed a series of feverish kisses to his throat as his movements became faster, harder, thrusts that, in her delirium, felt as if they were moving the world itself and not merely his own body against hers.

She came for a second time just as he reached his own climax, another incredible, intoxicating first for her, and held him in her arms as he collapsed against her, both of them breathing heavily, their hearts pounding together before Sherlock rolled onto his back, pulling Molly into his arms and kissing her gently. "So," she said, when she could finally manage not only her thoughts but words as well. Quite an achievement considering her current state of bliss. "Exclusive and long-term, is it?"

"Ultimately leading to marriage and children," he agreed, pressing a solemn kiss on her lips, a promise of a future she more than looked forward to sharing with him. "With one condition, of course."

She frowned and looked at him, waiting expectantly when he paused.

The devilish grin returned to his lips as he said: "I will always be the lead author on our co-written papers."

If anyone had been passing by the bedroom window, they would have no doubt been startled by the peal of masculine laughter that rang out as Molly began beating her new lover – and future husband – with her pillow.


End file.
